Sweet Forty-Two(75)

I gestured to the large windows that butted up against the booth. “At least you have the location working for you.”

She shrugged and tilted her head side-to-side like she was half disagreeing. “The vista works, right? But ... this is a back street in a largely residential neighborhood. There’s a boutique on the north side of the street, but this part of the road looks like a long driveway. There’s not a ton of foot traffic ... almost none, really. And very little through traffic.”

“Okay,” I sighed, putting my hands on my hips, “time to get some traffic, then.”

She looked up, biting her lip. “How?”

I wandered into the dining area and took a few laps around the space, willing an idea to come to me. I looked back at Georgia, who was watching me closely through the large cut-out in the wall. It was as open a kitchen as the space would allow without completely removing a weight-bearing wall. It was a fantastic space. Warm, open...

“Classes!” I shouted with a loud clap of my hand.

A clearly exhausted Georgia felt the volume all the way to her bones, it seemed. She jumped half a foot back. “What the f*ck is wrong with you!”

“Sorry,” I exaggerated a whisper, “classes.”

She flipped me off, and whispered back, “Explain.”

“You could offer baking classes here. For one, people love to say they’re taking classes of something that sounds fancy. That’s just how people are. Throw the gluten-free angle into it and you’ve got something. People want to learn how to bake G-F stuff whether they need to, or not. And, if they do need to, you’ll be doing them a huge favor. You could charge per class or per session ... like ... I don’t know, you could either have a course, so people could learn to make cookies, cupcakes, breads, whatever all in a week, or you could have cookie week...”

I trailed off as Georgia walked into the dining area to meet me toe-to-toe. My tattered six-year-old Converses against her ancient combat boots whose scuff marks were colored in with black permanent marker.

“What? Too much?”

“No,” she blinked like her lashes were the fluttering wings of that rocking horse fly, “it’s f*cking brilliant!” A rare wide smile crinkled her eyes as she leaped from her spot on the floor and wrapped her legs around my waist.

Instantly it reminded me of the day I’d met her and she’d greeted CJ that way. It seemed like forever ago, but I know that there was no way back then that I was thinking I’d be in his position someday. The recipient of Georgia’s full-body experience hug. I crossed my arms under the full curve of her hips and circled us around once before setting her down.

“Jesus, Regan, seriously!” She squeezed me one more time before running into the kitchen and returning with a calendar and a notebook. “That’s brilliant. I had so many people this week saying, Oh I wish I could bake like this. I could teach them, and they might do it a few times to impress people or when they’re feeling down, but we know they’ll still buy from the bakery. People know how to cook but still order out, you know what I’m sayin’?”

For the first time since I’d known her, Georgia’s Eastern Massachusetts screw-you accent slipped from her mouth.

“Yeah, I know whatchyou’re sayin’,” I echoed the accent back as I sat across from her.

She blushed deeply, looking up at me through noticeably tired eyes. “It’s like that when I’m tired. Fuck off.”

“How has everything been, just, in general?” I watched her hands produce a fascinatingly flowy cursive penmanship as she marked boxes on her calendar and made lists of ideas for classes.

“I can do an introductory class to start. Offer those on the next two Saturdays and Sundays and then schedule the grand opening for, like, three weeks from now?” She looked up hopefully, but frowned when she saw me studying her. “What?”

I gave a half smile. “I asked how things were going, you know, with life. I only see you in here these days ... just checking in.”

She sat back in the booth. “Things...” She looked around, just with her eyes, not turning her head. They seemed to glass over a bit.

“Hey...” I reached across the table and held out my hand. “Would it help if I went first?”

Georgia placed her always-warm hand in mine, and I took a deep breath as I wrapped my fingers around them. “I’m working on a final goodbye to Rae.”

“What kind of goodbye?”

“An answer to her letter.”

Georgia looked confused. “Did she ... ask you something?”

“Haven’t you read it?” I tilted my head to the side.

“No.”

“But when...” I trailed off, trying to recall why I’d assumed she’d read it.

She pulled her hand from mine and ran it through her hair. She had thick roots growing in. The only reason I thought anything about it was because CJ said her hair used to be dark, and I’d spent an inordinate amount of time imagining her with dark hair.

“The night Bo and Ember were here, they sat with you and read it, remember? It was clearly a very ... personal moment. I wasn’t going to intrude.”

I reached into my back pocket, where I’d been keeping the card since I first read it. “Read it.”

“It’s okay, Regan, I don’t ... need to.” She shook her hands and head at the same time.